[for Wolverine] book ends

[daretodo]

Used to be that if I was in a bar on a Friday night, it was to rough up some mook into giving me enough information so I could figure out who the mook I caught earlier in the night was really working for. There was a natural order to things. A purpose.

Not so much, anymore. This is the second time this month that I've found myself at the Catscratch Club, though this time -- fortunately -- Tony is nowhere to be seen. Good. For a number of reasons, really, though somewhere on the less important spectrum of things is the fact that I didn't come here to see him, anyway.

I spot Wolverine sitting on what I'm guessing must be his usual stool and I am, suddenly, acutely aware that I left Mary Jane's company to come to talk to him. I am similarly aware that she's the reason I'm here in the first place, through absolutely no fault of her own.

I drop down beside him, holding on tight to the edge of the bar so I can lean back, my arms stretched out in front of me.

"We have got to stop meeting like this."

Comments

[exweapon]

"You didn't call it," I say. No way he could have, if you ask me. Doesn't matter if he thinks he should have, even. Too late for that. "Don't waste time wishing you did, unless you and Stark are whipping up a time machine."

[daretodo]

You know what's the exact opposite of a good time? Telling your best buddy -- the one who is slowly dying until we figure out a way to recreate a brand new element -- that your wife's shown up when his girlfriend is currently lying in the clinic with an arc reactor in her chest. That meeting could've really gone better.

"Don't talk to me about Tony," I reply with a grimace, rubbing my hand over my face as I sit back up. I didn't call that one, either.

[exweapon]

"You ask me, I shouldn't be talking to you about anyone," I say, raising my glass. "Go home, Parker. You're not going to make yourself feel better talking to me. Go make it up to your wife."

[daretodo]

"God, I hate it when you're right," I grumble, bracing myself on the edge of the bar so I can pull myself back up to my feet. I don't feel better, no, but at least I don't feel worse, either, which is more than I can say about some of the other conversations I had this week.

I wouldn't go so far as to wish this place had crime, but lemme tell ya: the best therapy I ever had was just talking through my problems while I dealt with whatever mook of the day happened to cross my path while on patrol. This is about the closest I can get to that without throwing a couple punches. It's almost sad.

"I'll tell her you say hi."